Considerations On The Rolodex Incident

world war 2 buddies
who will listen as I talk
what is this house even worth
nothing but a last sleeping november
soft graces that once filled these spaces
a tired hand holding a lit cigarette
no more places left to go
no more reason
for doubt
for a mind
that yearned to soar
but feared flight
will I learn to travel
light
will I learn to travel
by the aligned constellations
I watch for
in the night

me and sailors
me and my guitar
just a lonesome road
you know
the ones you read about?

how did we get here
without a map and no idea
just some bitter idea
of perfection
that eventually requires
correction
lay a little here
and a bit with spite
and a little with each person
 in your rockets
we're all astronauts
exploring the unknown
travellign through astral snow
learning a little bit
as we go.

Hell Itself

there are no more games
no stained class architecture
blasting up into the sky
for flames to laugh at
from hell itself.

One more face in the gallery
of perpetual evil
swindled by Poseidon's
watery wailing sea
one more martyred
failure where there
shouldn't be.

But somewhere the nights are twice as long
Somewhere the hole that's left behind
sitting like an empty canon
corroding droning entropy withers
fascism fighting against
chisels ringed with
phony thorns singing
like barbed wire
round the lonely hearts
of children.